


the shadow of a shadow has no shadow

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Logic, Fairy Tale Style, Fractured Fairy Tale, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5039206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where a curse gains power, there is never any escape...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, yeah, Lyarra/Rickard in fairy tale clothing with a suitably unhappy ending.
> 
> Nothing much happens, I'm only testing my fairy tale producing skills.

It was no more than a couple of winters after the death of his father, the late and much regretted, King Edwyle, his son and heir, Rickard, of the same House of Stark as his august parent, having come into his title of kingship and having assumed the burden of leadership, decided that it was time to seek throughout his kingdom a maiden that should be his Queen. It cam upon him, the thought, as she was watching the roses in bloom, their sapphire delicacy enthralling him, yet at the same time remind the King that his Kingdom had no such joy in the form of a good woman to rule by his side.

Thus called the King upon his most loyal servants, old, wise ma with great long beards, and to them he told of his desire. "Since the death of my mother, may the gods ever rest her soul, these walls have not felt such a benevolent presence, that of a queen. It has come time for me to do my duty by the realm."

His council of wizened faces declared themselves in favour of such a move. It was, to all of them, great news, for all had daughters and granddaughter of wit and beauty, fair maidens who would fain agree to become wives.

And as such it was devised that the King should tour his realm in search of the perfect bride. And so it was that the bravest riders of the land gathered together so they could join their liege on his journey. No hero of the realm was absent, from the strapping son of Lord Umber, called the Greatjon, to Myron Reed the Fork-tongued. King Rickard gathered around him men of worth and valour, knights and warrior alike with whom to make merry upon the road.

And so it was that the King began his journey upon the seventh moon of the year with a pale sun high up upon the azure canvas lighting his way. The company, numbering many men and beasts, made slow progress upon the road and stopped upon whatever keep presented itself in their way. The men would drink and sing long into the night. The wine flowed. The bards sang. Onto the King many a maiden was presented.

All manner of young ladies were brought before him. Some of them tall and lean, others small and delicate. Some wide of hips and other full of bosom. If one was fair-haired, golden tresses shining in the firelight, another would have inky black curls that ran down her back. Where one sang heavenly, another embroidered, or if not she was a poet. Fine arts did the women master in those days. And if neither skill for music, nor love for poetry or other arts guided them, then the womenfolk of the North wielded thing long swords, gracefully curved bows and shiny knives.

And all these women hoped that they would capture the heart of the young King. Yet the King would smile and nod and then turn his gaze away. It seemed that not one of them had managed to touch him.

And though it was the whole realm he travelled in his search, no maiden had been chosen for his bride. Long and tiring hours did Rickard Stark spend on his journey. What had begun as an adventure became a burden, pressing over his shoulders with more and more force with each passing day. The young King began to despair of ever finding a woman to rule by his side. It seemed that the gods had yet to create her.

It was in the home of the Marsh lord, Myron Reed, that salvation came to him in a most unexpected form.

Through the wind and hail, from a realm of frost, came into the grand hall of Lord Reed a small man, bent of back and light of step. He carried with him a harp. And by his clothing one could name him bard. He begged the King in the North for shelter and permission to travel with him.

"I am but an old man, Your Majesty, in need of aid and succour." His explanation was well-received by the King who was more than happy to order the man fed and given drink to. After all, what was one more soul to so many others?

The man ate and drank to his heart's content, filling his stomach, and then his heart was filled with joy. For the kindness of the King he wished to give a gift of his own. "I have none but my song to give, Your Majesty."

If only songs could summon his a maiden. But the King did not refuse. "Sing you songs then, bard, and let us hear you."

And the bard sang. He sang in the old tongue. He sang of maidens fair, of kings long gone, of deed of valour and heroes buried. He sang of the cold creatures from the lands of forever winter. He sand an old ballad of a mighty warrior tricked into the bed of an ice queen. And in the man's song, the Dead Queen bore to the King of Winter a child. It was no son she gave him but a daughter.

As those words reached his ears, something within the King's heart shifted. And he listened closer still, straining to gather every last detail. And the Queen's daughter, when she was a girl of young age, fell into the hands of a lord who captivated by her beauty forced upon her his get. The young women died in childbed but her babe lived on to grow into a fair creature herself. And she too became the object of a man's affection. Fate, kinder than it had been to her mother, allowed that the maiden wed the man who loved her. She became the mother of a daughter herself. And on and on it went, each daughter close and closer to Rickard.

"And their line endures, these women born of winter's bone and marrow. Their blood is blessed and cursed in equal measure." So finished the old man's songs.

"And do you know, bard, where endures the last of their line?" the young King questioned, already seeing himself at the gates of whichever keep harboured the lady he desired.

"Ah, my poor King," the old man said, "'tis true that one last daughter of the line endured, but she is held captive and none may have her so long as she is under the power of Symafel. A giant is he, this Symafel, of unparalleled ugliness. The trees lose their leaves when he passes them by and the faces of the gods frown at his sight, the very sun shies away."

"And the lady is his prisoner, you say. This cannot be." Rickard stood from his seat. "And where does the beast keep her? Where is this woman I want for my own?"

"Oh, this Symafel dwells beyond the Wall, in the haunted forest. There he stays all day and night, roaming through the trees and hunting the innocents he comes upon." The mournful voice of the man struck a cord in many a heart.

The heroes of the realm stood to their feet as well, each yelling louder than the other that he would rescue the lady and fell the foul beast if only their liege would order it. "Let one of us have this honour," they called out. "Let the Greatjon go. Or even the Fork-tongued Myron."

But the King would not hear of it. "I shall go myself."

And upon that oath he gathered those things he thought he would need and allowed only one other man to join him. Though he cold have chosen a companion with skills for dealing death, it was the old bard that the King asked for. "It is your knowledge I need, old man, more than the skills of any of my men at this moment."

Together they rode forth many days and nights, and companions grew into friends. The King would beg each night to hear again the song of the woman he already loved with a burning passion. "Be careful of this desire, sire, for ice burnt by fire turns to water and water drenches all."

"You think me a fool, I know it to be true," the young man spoke. "But this fire in my heart cannot burn out, even if I were in the middle of the frozen sea." And he would listen to the unnamed lady's song and ask question after question.

Yet no answer could fulfil his desire of learning his chosen one. All answers came short. The old man would laugh and the n fall asleep. Young heart, he would murmur softly, were too gentle and unknowing. Rickard would toss and turn all night long wishing for the sun to rise and for their journey to advance. Thus went on the two of them, and the snow fell and the wind blew.

When finally they reached the Wall, the bard thought it best to stop and rest. "Oh, nay, my good man," the King said, "for if we wait much longer, who knows what fate the young lady will have?"

The sworn brother with their black capes and sullen faces tried to warn the King away. They spoke of a great hulking beast and on dark magic and all other sort of terrors. But Rickard paid them no mind. He merely requested that he be taken to the nearest godswood so that he may pray the gods for strength. And he knelt before the carved face in the tree and to it told of his deepest and fondest wish. It seemed to him that ruby eye promised help and as a crow perched high upon one nibble snow-white branch croaked, the King's heart swelled.

Into the haunted wood the men rode after not much time had passed. Within the strange forest queer sounds could be heard. The owls sang in the middle of the day and wolves howled their hunger. The branches of trees hanged low, grabbing onto they who passed with greedy fingers, tearing and scratching. It seemed the very soul of the woods was trying to keep them out. But Rickard raised his head defiantly. He would not be cowed. And on he marched, followed by the bard.

They travelled upon uneven ground, stones and gnarled thorny bushes opposing them at every turn. And no birds thrilled sweetly, nor did any fruit grow upon the bare trees and the wind rushed by them, cutting. But on they went, and on and on.

"How much longer?" the King asked. They had been riding for many an hour and by his count it would be night time soon, though it was difficult to be sure as no ray of sunshine made it past the heavy, gnarled and crossing braches.

"'Tis very close now, Your Majesty," the old man assured him. "This road here leads to the giant's den and this other one," he pointed to a narrowed path, leads to where the lady is."

"The lady," Rickard murmured. Instinctively, he urged his horse towards that path, but the old man stopped him.

"First you must slay the beast and only after go after the maiden." The instructions were met with a frown.

"If I know not that the maiden yet lives and how she is held, how am I to rescue her?" A plan was needed and for that the king decided that, indeed, he would see the maiden first. The horses were hidden away from sight and the old man was to stay with them. "I shall return as soon as I can," the King swore, "until I have done so, remain as you are, my friend."

And he left the old man to go on the narrow path. He looked about himself, trying to commit to memory every detail. But all trees looked the same and all stones too. He kept walking on until before him rose the slim and tall form of a stone tower. The blackened stone and wooden roof spoke of its old age. Wines climbed the tower and the entrance had been sealed shut, a wide stone placed before it. It would take perhaps two scores of men to lift the boulder.

Yet it was the figure that stood behind a window that had Rickard's entire attention. Resting her head upon her open palms, a fair maiden looked ahead, a mournful expression painted upon her lovely face. Rickard rushed forward, knowing that the quick movement would gain her attention. And so it did.

The creature shied away at the sight of him, retreating into the shadow of her tower. But Rickard called after her. "Fair maiden, be not afraid! Come, let me see you once more."

"Go away," she spoke back, her voice sweet and clear, "leave here if you are fond of your life."

"I am fond of life," he admitted. She replied nothing to that. "But I am much fonder of you, my lady. Come, at least tell me your name, for I have travelled many leagues to learn it."

"More fool you then," she responded, yet her face was once again visible, framed as it was by dark tresses. "Whoever you are, you must leave. Oh, you must. Do leave."

"For now I shall," he complied. "You have but to tell me your name, fair maiden."

A shadow crossed her face. "My name, good ser, is to be given only to my champion."

For the moment admitting defeat, Rickard bowed to the maiden and turned away. He would learn her name yet. But for the time being he returned to the old man.

"I have seen the monster pass," the bard whispered. "His shadow fell upon ma and its weight nearly crushed me."

"Where is the beast now?" the King demanded.

"He sleeps, my liege, and so he shall remain until the new day comes." And it was the perfect moment for Rickard to strike.

Realising that his opponent was at his mercy, the hero took out the blade of his father. The sword gleamed even without light, the steel humming as the promise of blood hung in the air. "What manner of weapon does this giant wield?"

"He does not need such weapons as you or me," the other man laughed. "He could crush a dozen warrior in his hands if he so chooses. And no blade forged of plain steel may cut into his skin. 'Tis only the maiden that has a weapon which may cut the monster."

"But she will not speak to me, not even to tell me her name," the King answered.

"She may only speak her name to the man who champions her cause. Accept to be her champion and she shall give you the blade." Yet as Rickard was about to go back upon the narrow path the ma stopped him. "Nay. Wait, Your Majesty, wait until the sun is upon the sky and the giant has left its den."

Taking the counsel, Rickard made his bed upon his cloak, pulling it around himself and closed his eyes, knowing that there was no more to be done until the sun returned to its rightful place upon. And so the hero and his old companion spend the night away, each with his own thoughts.

At the break of dawn, with new strength and vigour, the King awoke and in the silence, absolute and pressing, a sight so disturbing filled his eyes that his very heart was driven into wild beating, hammering inside his chest, ready to break through bone and flesh both. It was true, what the old man had said, a giant did indeed live in these parts. The huge form drifted before his eyes, mindlessly stepping over trees, felling them with the strength of a storm.

Yet soon he was gone and released from the clutches of his own terror the young King woke up the bard and told him he would depart. "I shall convince the maiden that I am her champion."

And with that thought in mind, Rickard of House Stark followed the narrow path and it wound out before him, deeper and deeper still into the forest until he came upon the very same tower with it blackened stones. The fair maiden stood once more at the window. As she saw him she leaned over further still.

"You are back," she said, eyeing him with wariness. "Why?"

"I wish to be your champion," he declared.

"You know not what it is to be my champion," came her dismissive reply. "Away, away, I say!"

"Away I shall not," he protested loudly, "for I have come here to be your champion."

"My champion indeed," she japed, "and how do you plan to save me, oh champion?"

"By strength of arm if needed, by wit should it be the case. With great effort and much eagerness," he called back to her, looking at her lovely face all the while. "My lady, give me the sword of your champion and with it I shall slay your foe."

A thoughtful expression crossed her face. She disappeared in the darkness of her tower and for some time she was gone. Rickard though she would not return after standing in the cold all the while. He looked longingly at the tower, wondering if he might not climb it somehow and retrieve her. But in the end she appeared of her own volition. In her arms shone a steel so fine, dark and strong, that Rickard needed a moment to admire it.

"This," she said, "is the sword of my champion, given to me by my other, who had received it from her own mother and she from hers. If I give it to you, you must promise to return it to me once you have slain my captor. Beware, good ser, that the sword has a mind of its own. Broken oaths breed broken lives."

She threw the sword towards him. The steel flew through the air, its song filling his ears. Rickard watched it embed itself into the earth. It was truly magnificent. He reached for it, hand wrapping around the handle. For one short moment it seemed that the sword would not lift even as he pulled on it. Yet in the end, he managed to release it with one powerful tug.

When he looked up the mysterious lady had disappeared in the shadows. But he could feel her eyes on him. Rickard bowed to her in gratitude.

As he started walking away, the maiden's voice sounded out behind him. "A word of counsel, brave ser, if you will, the heart of your enemy is that which the sword must strike."

Hidden away in the woods with his companion the King waited for the night to fall once more. But as the two of them sat there, the horses beside them, the dark shadow of the giant passed before them again, yet it did not head for its den. It strode towards the tower and the lady. Rickard felt the cold fingers of dread wrapping around his heart when the giant cam back, carrying caged between his palms the fair maiden.

The moon was high upon the sky when the hero-king and the loyal bard approached the den of the foul best. From within they could hear the sweet song of the maiden, whose voice flowed through the cave. The immense structure welcomed the newcomers. Guided by the song of the woman, Rickard and the bard came upon a strange sight indeed.

The giant had placed the maiden upon his table and before her he had set the carcass of a deer, cooked to perfection and for him he'd taken n aurochs. The maiden continued to sing though, not once looking towards the food. Rickard stayed hidden with his companion, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. As they waited a conversation most interesting ensued between captive and captor.

"Why do you refuse me still, fair maiden? Have I not done everything for you?" the questioned thundered from the mouth of the giant.

"Not for me," she denied, her voice a weak gust of wind alongside his. "'Twas not I who made you a promise. Pray release me and I shall never cross your path again."

The giant laughed long and loud. "That cannot be. You have my heart," she replied. And it was that horrifying revelation which Rickard could not stomach. "And I have something of yours."

If his heart was the maiden's, then if he was to strike his heart he would have to strike the maiden. Strangely enough, the beautiful creature turned her gaze to where he stood, her eyes scrutinising the shadows, as if she knew him there. Her gaze begged him to come forth and aid her.

And fool that he was, Rickard stepped forward.

But something must have given him away, for the giant turned around and upon seeing the intruder he thundered from his seat, "What is the meaning of this? A thief! You have come to steal from me."

"I am no thief," Rickard bellowed in response. "But I have come for the maiden. Release her, foul demon, and I shall be merciful." The sword the lady had given him glinted menacingly.

The giant growled. "That sword, where have you taken it from?"

"That is my business and none of yours," the King spoke, words dripping with contempt. "But enough, I say! If you be no craved come and fight me."

Accepting the challenge, the giant rose from his seat, his movement slow and heavy. He tried to catch Rickard in his fist, but the King, young and nimble, escaped him with ease. The opponent made another attempt, yet he was rewarded with a deep wound for his effort. He howled in pain and, angered, swatted at human king. Again he was met with no success. Rickard, though, managed to grab onto the giant's hand and as the other tried to shake him off, the young man jumped to the table and took hold on the fair maiden, wrapping his arms about her. The steel of his blade came to ret at her neck.

He could feel her trembling as well as he felt her resolve. "Tell me there is another way," he begged of her softly.

"There is not other way. The sword must find the hard," she answered him, her voice a whisper.

"Nay! Nay, do not," the giant spoke. "I beg you, do not cut her. I will give you anything you desire. But do not harm her. Gold and silver, precious stones, a crown and a kingdom, a seat among the gods. They shall all be yours, but do not cut her."

Oh the irony of it. Rickard fought back the temptation to laugh. "You know nothing monster and I refuse your fetid offer." And the blade struck true, sinking into the fair maiden as his opponent cried out in despair.

At his feet the maiden fell, tumbling from his arms when the blood came gushing out. The giant too fell, his huge form filling upmost of the cave. Rickard knelt by the wounded creature and took her in his arms. With tears in his eyes, her brushed away locks of dark hair. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," she spoke, "nothing at all. I am free. You have freed me with Ice. And in freedom I become yours."

It was then that the bard too climbed upon the table and shed his disguise. Before King Rickard the old man became a handsome young lad with an angelic face. "Well done, my liege," he offered words of praise, "you have slain your foe and won the lady."

"Ah, but the price is too dear," the King cried out.

"Not if you have faith," the young angelic man contradicted. He too knelt by the wounded woman. "As I have done for you mother and the mother of your mother and those that came before her, I give you a choice. Reclaim your shadow, or stay with this man here and be a wife to him until the day you birth him a daughter."

"I shall stay," the woman answered firmly. "I shall stay by him until I can stay no longer."

And thus the sword was pulled out of her and her wound was healed by the once-bard. "This is your choice. Remember. And you, King in the North, know this, your woman will be true and faithful, she shall love you and you shall love her. But will the rest of your realm bow to this choice?"

"Why should they not," Rickard questioned, helping the lady up.

"Look upon your lady, Your Majesty. Look upon her carefully." And he looked. He stared at her from top to bottom, taking in every detail, until he reached her feet. And as he gazed at her, fear filled him.

"You have no shadow," he gasped. "What happened to your shadow?"

"Her shadow is payment," the angelic man explained. "Every woman of this life is to live under the shadow of the first Winter Queen, the ruler of death. Through trickery she took human seed and made life where life should not be. And every one of her daughters has followed her."

"But she is human, just as I am," Rickard spoke, gazing at the lady. "What does it matter if she has no shadow? No one shall ever know. I shall protect you."

"How kind you are to me, Your Majesty," she offered. "Shall I give you my name?" At his nod, she parted her lips once more, "I am Lyarra on no house. And I shall be a wife to you and a mother to your children."

"And I shall be your ruler and husband," he responded. "Come now, Lyarra." He unclasped his cloak and wrapped her in it. So none may note her lack of shadow he instructed her to walk in his own shadow. "If it cannot be any other way, I shall do this for you."

The angelic man showed them the path that led out of the forest. "Follow this road and you shall reach the Wall faster than we arrived here."

And so it was as the man had said. At the gates of the Wall, the King called for his men to let him pass. And the gates opened and he passed through, bringing his shadowless Queen in with him. Lyarra burrowed into his back and the sword she had given him hung on his hip.

At the sight of their King hale and hearty the men cheer. They looked upon his fair wife and cheered again. As they followed with a third such cheer when the nuptials were announced.

"Send out the ravens. All my lords are to come to the Wall," the King decreed.

And his will was done.

Upon her dark tresses they placed a crown and her shoulders were covered by a thick cloak of pure white with the running wolf sewn upon it. "She stood beneath the weirwood tree in the arms of her husband as he swore to cherish and protect her. And in turn Lyarra of no house, taking the name of Stark, promised to her kingly husband that she would do all within her power to share the burden of his rule.

And the nobles did feast upon tender meats and fruit, upon vegetables and broths of many kings. With them so did the smallfolk. The wine flowed in endless rivers and rivulets filling mouths and bellies. And the bards sang and the people danced. It was the manner in which the felicity of the King echoed through the hearts of men.

Queen Lyarra gave to her husband a son in the first year of their marriage. This son they named Brandon, after Brandon the Builder who had raised the Wall. The boy, healthy and robust, was the very image of his father, down to the blue of his eyes. In him, Rickard had found his heir and he considered that none better could ever came along.

Then followed Eddard Stark, a boy that took after his mother in appearance and manner. Yet in the grey of his eyes one could, from the very beginning, see the daring of the wolf, the same daring which shone in the eyes of his older brother. And together they ran about, from infancy the very best of friends. And it gladdened the King's heart to have such sons. For he knew in his heart of hearts that even a calamity would not tear them apart and they would remain brother not only in name but in deed also.

The third son to be born to the Stark line came upon the eve of a great storm. His mother laboured many hours with him. She howled in pain as the storm raged outside the walls of Winterfell and, though sweat and tears blinded her to all else but her own ache, she managed, in the end, to deliver the child safely into the world. Like his brothers, the third son was a Stark through and through, Most dear was he to his mother, for she had laboured long with him and once she held the babe in her arms her own heart melted.

These three boys of the Northerner King delighted the whole realm. And the Queen was praised for her fertility and the life she had given. Noblewomen would flock to her side, asking to hear of her success, and they would beg for her to bless them also. The Queen did her duty by all just as she had promised she would.

To Rickard Stark she was fine wife and Queen. No problem in the realm was too small to hold her attention. She listened to the smallfolk and their demands, she spoke in favour of peace among her husband's men, she prayed the gods that the Kingdom would endure. And for that she was well loved by all who know her.

To her three boys she was a cheerful mother, a fierce protector and a gentle guiding hand. She sang to them songs of brave knights and deeds of valour and instilled into each of her three children a fierce love of and abiding devotion towards the great North. To them she was the gentlest and best of all creatures and she loved them as well as they loved her. And for that she was spoken of in kind words by all people who knew her.

But then, as all good things must find their end, so did the reign of such a benevolent Queen. And if her sons would remember her and mention her from time to time then her soul would soar with joy. And her grandsons might sing her praise and their sons and after that the sons of their sons. But in the end she would fade from memory, to remain a line in a song, an unknown figure of gentleness and beauty. If at all she was remembered.

For the fourth time the Queen fell pregnant, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it would be a daughter she'd be delivered of. And so she took herself to the most remote tower in her husband's keep, where she ordered that none were to enter upon pain of death. To no avail did her King and husband attempt to dissuade her; she listened not even to the pleas of her sons. All that could be done to convince the Queen to come out of her tower had been attempted and all had failed.

So it was left to father and sons to wait upon the woman and her whims. Long was their wait and great their worry. For the tower would sometimes be filled with a strange light and at other times as black as the darkest night. None knew what to do. The council advised the King to wait, not knowing what powers had gathered in the tall structure, and the King wanted to break down the door. The children just wanted their mother.

For nights unnumbered the Queen prayed to the old gods that they would forgive her daughter, spare her the burden of the curse. "What fault had she?" Lyarra begged for their understanding. "Let me have whatever punishment you deem fit for her and I shall bear it gladly."

Yet the gods paid her no mind, for they seldom took into account the words of mortals if it did not entertain them.


	2. Chapter 2

The love and pathos of the Shadowless-Queen won over a celestial being. 'Twas a twinkling star upon the night's sky that heard her pleas and within its fiery heart it felt a thug. And so, it shone its light within the tower of Lyarra and from its place fell down into the world of the sinners.

Great was the surprise of the Queen when she saw before her the supine form of a wondrous creature. She gazed upon the feminine shape. "Who goes there?" she asked without fear. Inside her tower none were allowed.

"It matters not what my name be," replied the unknown entity. "I have come many leagues from my palace within the sky to aid you, mortal." The star placed a hand upon Lyarra's protruding middle. "'Tis time that the child come into the world."

To Lyarra those words rang true, for, indeed, the pain of birthing was upon her. It should be a crass ting to note down the struggles and pains the Queen took to deliver her child. As such, it shall be enough to note that like many women, Lyarra fought the ache and triumphed over it with the verve of any other great hero of songs.

For her pain, Lyarra was rewarded with a daughter, a child with the features of her mother; her very image, as it were. And then it came the star's turns to speak to the mother of protecting the child.

"You of no name," began Lyarra, "tell me now why it is you have come."

The star inclined its head. "The gods cannot go over the words of the gods. The curse cannot be broken by them, nor me, nor by you, oh Queen. But the Princess can be protected with this." The guest held out a thin silver necklace with a pendant hanging from it. Lyarra gazed at it questioningly. The star explained, "This that looks like silver is not mere precious metal. It is enchanted. Whosoever wears it around their neck shall have a glamour placed upon them. And whoever sees past the glamour, being only one person of their kind, shall be the one to break the curse."

Lyarra nodded her head, tears in her eyes. "My gratitude knows no bounds," she said in a weak voice, tired from her battle.

"But I must warn you," the star began, "that the glamour is not a pleasant one to behold. And should you rid your daughter of the necklace after placing it on her, then all your praying will have been in vain."

"I care not how she looks, so long as the curse may be broken," Lyarra declared.

And upon the babe they placed the necklace. Before the Queen's very eyes, the face of her child became twisted and scarred. The woman gasped in terror, but she would not take off the necklace. Not even if the gods themselves ordered her to.

Her child wept, as if for the lost loveliness she'd known for too short a time. But Lyarra kissed her brow lovingly and then looked upon the star once more. "I have no words left to give to you."

"Then do as your conscience dictates," the star replies in a soft manner. It touched its hand upon the child's head. "Do not weep, sweet babe, this only for a few years of your life that you must bear this mask."

Yet what no one had ever told any mortal was that a few years in the eyes of a star could mean decades for the realm of mortals. But the star left before Lyarra could say anymore and her child was born.

Outside the sun was slowly rising and when Lyarra stepped into its light upon the floor her proud shadow had fallen. Yet the child in her arm boasted no shadow of her own. Lyarra knew in her heart that she'd done well, yet as all mothers, the suffering of her child was a wound that would not quite close.

Then came the time for her to abandon the tower. When the door was unlocked, Rickard was the first to enter. He saw his wife with a bundle in her arms, cooing softly to a gurgling creature that was hidden from his sight. He stepped forward, yet stopped short as the eyes of Lyarra rose to his. From within the linens, a small hand short out. And the King's eyes widened.

It was no human his wife embraced, he thought, gazing stupefied at the scales covered limb. He drew closer carefully and looked with silent dread at the child. Two golden, reptilian eyes stared up at him from a twisted face along which ran scars.

"Gods be good," he spoke silently, "what is the meaning of this?"

"This, Your Majesty, is your daughter," Lyarra answered with the tenderness of a mother. "This is Lyanna of House Stark."

Rickard stepped back. "This is no child of mine," he said in a harsh manner. "This is a monster." The babe began to weep, voice thin and raw. "We must be rid of it."

Yet his Queen would not hear of it. "I have given you three sons, each of them worthy and good. I only ask that I be allowed to keep mine own daughter, even if her looks are less than fortunate."

They argued long upon what to do. The Queen's will was as strong as the King's. But she had something he did not. And that was compassion along with the general knowledge that her daughter was beautiful and someday someone would see that.

It was decided that the child should remain in her mother's care, inside the tower where she had been born. Lyarra Stark was not to step a foot out of her prison-home during the day. Only on nights without a moon could she walk about the ground and only accompanied by her mother, who refused to be parted from her child.

And so it was that the little babe with the twisted face found her way into the loving company of a tender mother, who would tell her stories of heroes and fair maidens and wild adventures. And the Queen would assure her daughter she was as beautiful as any of them, while keeping her away from any surface that might reflect her image.

The daughter of the Northerner King and Queen, Lyanna by name which had been granted her, kept growing and growing, still in the loving care of her mother and in the safety of her tower-home. But as she grew, she became more and more curios of the world around her. She longed to feel the light of the sun upon her cheek and to taste sweet water from the icy rovers which flowed through her homeland. Lyanna wished to see the world in the light of day, for she was tired of the frail light of the torch.

“Oh, please mother. I beg of you. Take me outside, just for a little while,” she asked of her slowly aging mother.

Lyarra would shake her head and decline. “You cannot go out, child. Now sit there by the fire and let me tell you a story.”

Lyanna would cross her arms over her chest and pout. “This is hardly fair.” It was so every time. For one reason or another, her mother would not take her outside during the day. But Lyanna had already found a solution. She would not accept her fate meekly, for that was not her lot. Not unlike her mother, there was a spark inside of her, and that spark could not be so easily contained even by a parent’s loving care. Lyanna vowed to herself that she would find her way outside the tower.

And so she waited for sleep to claim her beloved mother and once that had been done. Lyanna approached her cautiously. She unknotted the girdle around her middle and took off of her the keys to the door. It was a fairly easy task and she had been planning it for quite some time.

Clambering down the stairs, Lyanna could hardly contain her joy. She pushed the key in the lock and twisted it gently. The latch gave way and the door opened with a soft squeak. Lyanna slipped outside, looking up at the moonlit sky. She admired the stars and twirled around, her feet feeling the soft grass beneath them. She wanted to run and shout and scream for joy, so happy was she.

The bonds of security lax, the youngest of King Rickard’s children made her way about the vastness before her and somehow managed, after a long walk, to come into the main road, a well-travelled, even by night, piece of land.

It was so that, coming upon her a rider and his horse stopped and stared in horror, muttering to the gods. The beast was kicked in the flanks and Lyanna was left in the dust. Shaking her head, the young woman did not know what to make of such an ill-mannered creature. She continued on her way, walking barefoot the road before her. It was a beautiful night.

The maiden walked and walked until from behind her something heavy approached. Lyanna glanced back and she saw a wheel-house being dragged forth. The driver was looking at her with wide, horrified eyes. Lyanna touched a hand to her face. He begged the gods for mercy and threw at her a silver coin. “I pray you, spirit, let us pass, for I have not any other coin to give.”

Picking the coin up, Lyanna inspected it. She held it up and put it in her mouth, biting on it. It was not of an edible kind, she realised. Thinking that she had no need of it, Lyanna approached the man that had stopped the wheelhouse. He trembled and shivered. Lyanna held out the coin to him.

“Be on your way, good man,” she said.

And away he ran. Confused and somewhat saddened, Lyanna sighed, her shoulders dropping. What had she done wrong?

Contemplating the matter held little interest for her. Soon she had begun walking once more and was making advance. When finally the first light of day came, Lyanna could feel her stomach rumble. She placed a hand to her middle, pressing the part which bothered her. She had not thought to bring food. But that was not so much a problem, she told herself, spying some berries in a bush. Lyanna walked towards the bush, she knelt beside it and picked a few pieces of the small fruit in her hands. It was not consistent food, but it was better than nothing, she reckoned.

The third traveller she met actually fainted. It was at that point that Lyanna began having her suspicions. She left the open road and make for the trees, her heat heavy, her mind numb. It was a small lake that revealed to her the truth. Thirsty, she had approached the body of water and looked down upon it and much to her horror beheld such a creature staring back at her that she cried out in fright and fell backwards. But nothing leaped at her from the water and no pain attacked her. Instead, all was quiet.

Lyanna once more looked down at the water and, the second time around, threw out her hand. It passed through the insubstantial wall, soaking her sleeve and confirming to her that it had been no monster but herself the one that she had seen.

It all made sense then. She could finally understand why her mother had kept her locked up in the tower and why it was that her own father loathed the sight of her. She could finally make out why her brothers were never allowed to see her. Gods be good, she was a hideous creature. Lyanna stared at the reptilian face, the scales and eyes. Her fingers passed over them and her reflection imitated every movement.

Tears were falling down her cheeks. Hugging her knees to her chest, Lyanna wept, for what else could she do? She waited there by the lake until she could weep no more and then finally thought upon what she should do. She decided, without having given it too much thought, that she would not be returning to her mother and the tower. A beast she might be, but she would live freely. 

Without much choice but to keep moving father and farther away, Lyanna Stark vowed to herself that despite her less than common visage would not create her trouble. After all, people had to see that despite the way she looked she was not a monster. The poor child, she had never learned of the cruelty of the world. Her mother had cared well for her, keeping it in her arms, a loving and gentle soul who had not wished to burden her sweet daughter.

The rest of the world, however, had no such compunction. Lyanna had tried all that she could think of to get the trust of other people, but wherever she showed her face there was always someone ready to cast a stone and more would follow. They called her ghost and demon, witch and devil. Even animals spooked at the sight of her. Lyanna was forced to retreat into the woods, take cover in the shadow of tall trees. It only became worse when she finally noticed she laced besides beauty a shadow of her own.

So it was that Lyanna travelling by seven villages was seven times refused entrance and aid, chased away by cruel men and women. Onwards she walked, stopping the nights to lick at her wounds. She had had no success with humans, but the wild beasts of the woods would sometimes join her.

One day, as she was wading in the river, trying to catch some fish, a whine caught her attention. Fearful, Lyanna tried to determine where the sound had come from. She looked around but saw nothing. Shrugging she was about to see to the fish when the cry assaulted her ears again. Turning around fully, her eyes came upon a prone form lying in the grass. Its head raised, a golden-eyes wolf looked at her as if begging for aid.

Lyanna licked her lips and craned her neck in order to better see what ailed the beast. There was blood coating its fur, leaving it grisly stained. The young maiden shuddered but stepped forth, burying her fear deep within her heart. The wolf watched her approach and allowed its head to fall back into the tall grass. Lyanna neared with great caution. She knelt by the wounded beast and looked at its limbs.

An arrow had been shot at it. It had pierced the flesh of a leg. She touched it and the wolf howled. Lyanna drew her hand back. The creature whined. She tried again, this time not startling at the sounds of pain. As gentle as she could, the maiden drew out the tip, anger welling within her at the sight of such ache. The wolf allowed her to work. Ripping a strip of cloth from the folds of her dress, she used the clean river water to wash the wound. After, she tied it to the best of her abilities. Lyanna petted the beast’s head softly and murmured to it words of comfort.

“I must go soon,” she said, still trailing a hand over the soft fur on the creature’s back. Before that, however, she went about gathering some fish. “I know ‘tis not much, my brave friend, but it is all I can give to you.”

Yet her new friend would not allow her to leave. If she tried to stand up and begin her journey, the wolf would attempt to follow. That, of course, only served to injure it further. Upon realising how the matters stood, Lyanna tried to find a satisfactory solution. She could not linger forever near the river after all.

Using all her craftsmanship, she put together many a branches and leaves, fashioning a stretcher of sorts. The wolf watched her patiently and understood, even without words, when it was time to place its weary body on the stretcher.

Lyanna continued on her journey, no longer alone. It did her heart good to have finally found some company; a creature that would not run at the sight of her.

It was at that time that further south another kingdom, a kingdom of dragons, had fallen prey to their neighbour, the Kingdom of the Stormlands. And the Storm King plundered the halls of the Dragon King and slew the man upon his throne. And the Queen of the Dragon King was spared for her beauty and made to serve the Storm Queen in the great halls of Storm's End. The children of the Dragon King, a boy and a girl, were taken as wards by the Storm King and made to swear fealty to the throne of their father's murderer.

Rhaegar was the name of the boy. And Shaena was his sweet sister. They hailed from distant shores, from an old House, that of Dragonlords, that had sailed from the doom of a once great kingdom. Targaryen was the name of that house and they were the heirs of the legacy.

If Shaena lived a peaceful life, on account of having no memories of her departed father, the son of Aerys, the Dragon King, was not blessed so by the fate. He remembered every detail about his father and mourned his death. And his pain grew into poison. And within him worked a desire for vengeance. He grew alongside the Storm King's sons and shared with them lessons and training. And while Rhaegar, mild and disinterested in appearance, pretended not to master whichever art the Storm King's children chose to try their hand at, he was in fact the best of them.

The young Dragon took up the harp to pass away the time and escape the Storm King's children when he felt stabs of sorrow too strong to endure. He hid away with the instrument and played sad songs. Shaena would sometimes hobble after him with a child's innocence. And she would weep in his shoulder as the melodies burrowed their way into her heart.

Little did the young man know of what awaited him. For more sorrow was to find its way upon his doorstep.

It came the time for the first of the Storm King's sons to wed. Robert Baratheon was he called and all maidens in the land knew him by the black of his hair and the blue of his eyes. He was, however, not impressed by any of the daughters his father's lords offered him. Thus he demanded that he be given the fair Shaena. The Dragon Queen wept but offered no resistance and Shaena herself seemed to accept her fate, taking upon her shoulder the cloak of sadness, as if it had been tailored for her.

All but Rhaegar held their silence. The young Dragon, on the other hand, protested to the union and claimed that he knew of maidens fairer than his sister; fair enough to put the sun to shame and have the starts falling out of the sky. At that, Robert reluctantly put a halt to his courting of Shaena and asked the prisoner Prince what he meant by those words.

"Simply, Your Grace, that there are other choices to be considered beside that of mine sister." His words made an impression upon many of the King's lords. They nodded their head in agreement and claimed that as the daughter of a defeated King she could not become a glorious Queen.

Rhaegar endured the denigration of his departed parent as best he could; the blood of the dragon coming to a boil. Yet hold his tongue he did, for he knew well that as the last of their line he and his sister fair had to, by any means possible, persevere.

The Storm King rose from his throne and decreed thus. "If you shall bring my son a creature fairer than your sister then he shall wed her and make of her a glorious Queen." The old King had been saddened at the choice of his son, for Shaena, though of kingly blood born, was the daughter of a man defeated, not a daughter of a great line of champions and heroes.

And so was Rhaegar Targaryen made a knight sworn to the Storm King and his quest was given to him, to find for his liege lord the fairest maiden in the whole creation and bring her forth to be crowned alongside the valiant heir of the Storm throne.

Riding out of the Stormlands along the Trident, the young knight travelled for many days and night, passing many keeps and asking to see the daughter of the house in hopes of finding a girl more beautiful than Shaena.

His efforts seemed in vain. For whenever he reached a keep that had daughters to offer, one was too old, the other too young, one was missing a tooth, the other looked a creature of legends, one could barely form a word, the other’s winestained skin stole from the fairness. His searched seemed doomed.

But the Dragon persevered in spite of the disappointment.

He was galloping at full speed through a darkened portion of the forest when something caught his eye. Rhaegar dismounted and neared what looked to be fireflies dancing around the statue of a beautiful maiden. Moss and vines had imprisoned the woman and the marble was chipped and cracked in some places, water having gathered in the crevices. It seemed a crime to his mind that he should pass by and not even glance her way.

Dismounting his horse, he admired the superbly carved form of the lifeless maiden and glanced about in search of other such statues that might keep her company. But she was alone save for a small groups of rocks.

Rhaegar took out a small knife and slowly cut away at the vines that wound tightly around her raised arms and the slim torso. He cleaned away the moss, going as far as to gather water as he could best to wash away some of the dirt and dust that had stained the pristine marble. He cleaned the delicate face with gentle swabs, leaving behind milk-white stone threaded through with silvery veins.

Satisfied that the lady was restored to her proper former glory, a sight meant to be admired, the knight made to mount his steed once again but the fireflies swirled around him in uneven rows, blocking his departure with a shield-like structure, putting an end to his plan.

"Brave knight, do not depart so hastily," a voice spoke from behind him.

Rhaegar jumped around and came face to face with an enchanting being. Tall and slender was she, with auburn-rich hair and eyes of the deepest darkest blue, a sea in her stare, he had ever gazed upon. A pang in his heart, however, made him glance towards the statue.

"Good ser, I beg that you would allow me to give you a reward," the woman said. Her translucent form held a hand out. "Tell me what it is you seek and I shall help." It was then that he noticed the damp hair and the moss clinging to her skirts.

But it was too late. Rhaegar was filled with terror when he realised that the statue was no mere sculpture, but a headstone. He had stepped upon this woman's grave and called her spirit forth from the hollow chambers beneath the earth that had undoubtedly served as her resting place. Yet she would aid him still.

"My lady," he bowed his head, "pray forgive me. Had I know I was disturbing your resting place," he trailed off, shamed and contrite to the point where words refused to leave his throat.

"Nay, nay," cried the redheaded maiden, "you have not disturbed me in the least. You did me a kindness, for those vines inconvenienced me and the moss was even worse, trapping me even as I wished to explore the riverside. Tell me what you seek, kind knight, and I shall aid in whichever manner it is given to me to do so."

A good deed could only be rewarded with another good deed by laws of old; laws that bound living and dead alike. Rhaegar looked upon the fair gast once more. "I seek the fairest maiden of the land for His Grace the Prince of the Stormlands to wed."

A thoughtful expression crossed the woman's features. "The fairest maiden of the land," she murmured. "Are you certain?" He nodded, assuring her of the sincerity of his request. "Very well then. The fairest maiden of the land can be found in the house of the King, House Tully by name. She is young and sweet as a maiden can be. And she is the fairest of the land."

The spirit spoke to him of which road he should take and more, she gave to him a small trinket, telling him to hand it to the King himself. "It will ensure that he accepts," she said with a small smile upon her face. "I bid you good luck on your journey, ser knight. May the gods protect you."

"And you," Rhaegar answered to her in kind, allowing her to return to the watery grave she had dwelled within for the god knew how long.

The court of the King he found where the good spirit had told him he would. Rhaegar, as per her instructions, asked for an audience with the great King. Hoster Tully was his name. He was a proud, jovial man, yet there was a sadness in his eyes. Rhaegar bowed to him and told the man of his search, and even of the kind ghost he had come upon in the woods.

"You have seen my Catelyn," the man cried out when the knight handed him the trinket. "Gods be good. You have seen my daughter."

The King told him the sad tale of Catelyn Tully who had drowned in one of the rivers trying to save her younger sister. "I had many children with my wife. All but two are gone," the man continued. "There is a son. My heir, Edmure. And I have yet one daughter, Lysa. And should you wish it, you may take her back to the Stormlands with you."

Lysa Tully was summoned before her father and Rhaegar was struck by the she bore to her departed sister. She gazed at his with blue eyes and a shy smile upon her lips. It was with gladness that she heard about her sister. "She saved me, good ser, and to her I owe my life." And when he spoke to her of the Storm King, the Prince and his court, the maiden seemed eager to travel that way. "You shall take me with you, shan't you, brave knight?"

At a nod of his head she clapped her hands together in delight. Sweet and child-like was this maiden, so close in age to his sister. And she, he decided, would make a splendid wife for Robert Baratheon.

So it was that the King of the Isles and the Rivers sent his daughter forth with a dowry and courtiers and much joy. This band of merry men and women reached the seat of the Storm King just as the young Prince was losing his patience and contemplating wedding young Shaena despite the promise made to her brother. To her great luck, Shaena was saved from even hearing of such plans when the doors leading to the great hall burst open and in strode her brother, on his arm a radiant being.

Introduced to the court as the daughter of the King of Isles and Rivers, Lysa Tully became the object of Robert's affection much to the delight of all gathered there. It was decreed that Rhaegar Targaryen, his sister and their mother be given places at the King's table as the wedding of Robert Baratheon and Lysa Tully was celebrated throughout the land with song and cheer, flowing ale and wines of all sorts.

Yet trouble was not far away. For as quick as his passion had been roused by the young beauty, so it faltered when Robert learned that Lysa carried his child after no more than five moons of being wife to him. The Prince had never been a patient sort and his wife was even less so.

As she went through her confinement the young Princess learned that the good Prince to whom she’d been wedded was not a man to sit by her bedside and marvel at the life they’d created together. He followed not the growth of their child, but instead found his pleasure in cashing the maidens of his father’s court.

Lysa turned to the fair Shaena for comfort as the two of them became fast friends and trusted in the once-Princess. But Robert, free from the passion which had taken his eyes away from Shaena found once again that he would like take to lover the fair-haired young woman.

Yet this time Shaena herself protested.

"You will not have me," she spat at his feet, anger burning in her eyes. "It would be a sin in the eyes of our gods and in those of the people."

"How wrong you are," Robert said, taking her by the shoulders. He smiled charmingly at her. "Come with me, sweet Shaena. Give yourself to me and I will show you a world of wonders."

But Shaena fought his hold like a madwoman, she scratched and bit and kicked her legs. Upon wounding his cheek with her sharp nails, Robert threw her away from him. "Ungrateful wretch," he bellowed at her. "You live because we allowed it and you will not show me such lack of gratitude!"

The poor dragon Princess was thrown in the dungeons for the heinous act of opposing Robert's will and her mother made to suffer much on her account by the Storm Queen, who, having been presented the story by her son, saw in Shaena a temptress of the lowest sort. Even Princess Lysa was convinced of the other's guilt and refused to seek her out in the dark chambers that served as her home at the behest of the Stag’s heir.

As punishment for not watching and controlling his sister, Rhaegar was sent away from the Storm King's court, never to return. "You have disappointed me," the Storm King said upon his departure. "I have raised you as mine own son. Never have I refused you anything and have done by you right as you would not do by me."

"Yet you have never been a father to me," Rhaegar responded in the end. "My father you slew without mercy, though you could never replace him." He turned away from the man, not wishing to see the face for a moment more. He could not bear it.

And away he went, to become a wandering knight, with nothing but a harp, a lance and a sword. He promised himself that one day he would find a way to release his mother and sister from their bondage and the Storm King would pay for all the suffering caused.

Until that moment came, however, he was to wander throughout lands near and far, plucking the strings of his harp and enchanting maiden and best and warrior alike.

Among his many stops was in the Kingdom of the Reach. Once upon a time the kingdom had been ruled by the famous Gardener dynasty, figures of lore and legend. They had at some point been supplanted by House Tyrell, the House of the Rose.

The King of the Reach was a rather mindless man who was ruled entirely by his shrewish wife, an intelligent woman who knew her own mind and cared nothing for the nonsense her husband spouted, except to laugh at them from time to time. She was, however, a dutiful wife, having given her husband an heir and two daughters.

Unfortunately, it became apparent to Rhaegar quite fast, that the only person of good sense in the royal family was this Queen, Olenna being the name given to her. Her offspring were about as bright as their father, if a bit more cunning, presumably by influence of their lady mother.

Still, they were none of them opposed to his presence. So Rhaegar was, for a time at least, happy to live in Highgarden alongside kind King Luthor, his son and heir, Mace, and the two earlier mentioned daughters, Janna and Mina. His life fell into a pattern there, for the Kingdom being at peace with all its neighbours, knights could joust and drink and make merry all day long without fear of interruptions.

Talented with his sword and lance as well as with his harp, Rhaegar became a favourite of sorts and his wit helped him enter even the good graces of the Queen, who between you and me, was a bit sour and mean, though not at all what could be termed evil. It was, perhaps, apt to be termed the very best period of his life, where he was his own master and owe to no one anything.

On balmy nights he would play his harp in the rose gardens and the King's daughters would weep foolishly be the song joyful or sad. The Queen would admonish them soundly and slap their hands away from their own instruments. "Do you want all of us to go deaf?" she would ask when the girls offered to join Rhaegar in his songs. "Let the good ser knight delight us and keep your foolishness to yourselves."

The King would nod along to whatever his wife said. He would smile at the girls and tell them they would sing and play another time. But that time never seemed to come. Rhaegar was, of course, very much amused by the whole scene. He would console the two Princesses with songs of valiant heroes and dream upon the day when he himself could be Shaena and his mother's hero.

"Beautifully played, ser knight," the Queen praised him.

"Your Majesty," Rhaegar bowed to them and the King. Then to the two Princesses who were giggling and whispering to one another about brave knights and great heroes.

However, after some time had passed, Rhaegar found that the court of the King he served under no longer suited him. Something within him whispered for another adventure, for he could no longer sit still. And so it was that Rhaegar Targaryen took his leave of the good King Tyrell and his sharp-tongued Queen and of the weeping daughters also.

**Author's Note:**

> Highly inspired by: fairy tales (the darker versions), "Peter Schlemihl's Miraculous Story" by A. von Chamisso and the fact that life's seldom pleasant.
> 
> Since I very much doubt an abundant readership will find this an interesting read, to those of you who have made it to this point: congrats. I'm flattered.


End file.
